Side A, Side B
by Sky-Pirate-Tat
Summary: What if Claire had married the Professor? For starters she would sometimes have to rescue Layton. . .


**Side A**

Sandy-eyed, drowsily, Luke held Claire's hand, relieving himself of paying attention as they moved. The boy tried to sleep as well as one could walking, just as he had dressed himself as decently as one in the dark—not very well. Luke eventually gave up sleep-walking and slowly realized that his shirt was inside out. He suspected he had forgotten his shorts too—it was much too breezy below. He looked down, and then desperately as Claire.

"Can we head back for a moment?" Luke sputtered.

"What is it, Luke?" Claire sighed. Her voice was gentle most times but now it carried a ragged, serious edge.

"I—I'm wearing a skirt!"

Claire merely glanced behind her, eyes widening. She figured that Luke had managed to take her skirt when he dressed, instead of his short pants, but she turned away.

"I'm sorry, dear, but we're already so close. Please endure it."

"Close to what?!" Luke asked. He still had no idea what was going on, much less the call for urgency. And why was the professor not at Claire's side, on the chase as well?

"Close to Hershel's kidnapper, dear."

"W— the Professor got kidnapped?!"

"It was hard to believe until I discovered the trace amounts of ether in the shattered tea cup in his office." Claire suddenly stopped. Her fingers were in her coat pocket, rubbing against a bottle and a bag full of cigar ashes.

"Luke, don't touch anything," she advised, giving him a firm motherly look as they went into the pharmacy. They treaded down the middle aisle towards the front counter. Behind the counter was a bedsheet closing off the sight of the storeroom. Luke's eyes widened as he gazed over the colored and clear liquids in vials. Claire gently squeezed his hand.

"May I help you?" a voice as sharp as loose floorboards asked. A squat form ruffled the bedsheet and a old man pulled the sheet back and met them at the front counter. He regarded Claire from over his fogged-up glasses.

"Yes. I would like to look at your sales records if you don't mind."

The shrunken man's puffy white brows furrowed. "Are you with the police?"

"No. I am not. My inquiry is for personal matters."

"Hmph." His cheeks puffed disapprovingly.

"I understand your suspicion; you have all right to be. However on behalf of my husband's safety, I insist."

"Hmph." The man hummed awhile. Eyebrows rather then eyes seemed to stare as the woman before him. His thin lips softened. "You have a sincere look about you. You may look. I'll lead you to the file room in the back." He lifted the thin bedsheet/curtain, allowing passage.

"Thank you, sir."

They passed bulbous glowing chemistry sets and vials more curious than the vials displayed out front. Once again Claire squeezed Luke's hand, a little tighter this time.

"What date and what product, Mrs.?"

"Ether, bought from your establishment in the past three months."

"Ah yes...." His brows raised like two fluffy clouds. "With how common ether is—how do iyou/i know what date the person you're looking for bought it?"

"In the past, ether was stored in tinted bottles. In recent months the bottles have been clear, if a tad blue under the light."

"A detective, are you?" the old man mused in bewilderment.

"She isn't a detective!" Luke piped up. "This is the great scientist, Dr. Mrs. Layton."

"Oh, Luke, I don't require a momentous introduction." There was a tint of a laugh as she said this, patting the boy's head.

"Ah, my apologies, ladies."

"Ladies?!" Luke exclaimed, then remembered the skirt around his waist and inwardly groaned. He looked at Claire, though he knew she was clearly ignoring him, looking through the filing cabinets. He would be denied a change of clothes.

He sat on the floor beside her, tugging at the bothersome skirt as she flipped through papers and set them aside. This was going to take forever.

"You look bored, little girl—"

"I'm a boy," Luke said flatly. Claire looked up.

"Pardon the child's manners, though it is true what he says."

"Hmm, my apologies. I couldn't tell with his, er... dress." He coughed. "As I was about to say... would you like to hear a brain teaser?"

Luke raised his head in interest- and Claire did too.

"Two convicts are locked in a cell. There is an unbarred window high up in the cell. No matter if they stand on the bed or one on top of the other they can't reach the window to escape. They then decide to tunnel out. However, they give up with the tunnelling because it will take too long. Finally one of the convicts figures out how to escape from the cell. What is his plan?"

"Um. . ." Luke cocked his head and crossed his arms in thought.

Claire opened her mouth to answer, but quickly stopped herself and returned to her mission. She felt guilty for being swayed by a puzzle, oblivious to the fact—or, rather, preferring not to think—that if she and Hershel's situations were switched, he would have done the same.

"I think I've got it!" Claire and the pharmacy owner looked up.

"His plan is to dig the tunnel, but pile the dirt into a mound so they can climb up to the window and escape." Luke put his hands on his hips triumphantly; consequently it made him look more feminine.

"Well done." The man nodded, then turned to Claire. "Any luck?"

". . .Not much." She shook her head at the heap of records. She fingered the cigar ashes in the bag and said, offhandedly, unexpectantly, "I know it's crazy to ask, but did any of your customers come in smoking a cigar... Perhaps Coronas Cuban cigars?"

"Cuban cigars. . .?!" He gaped. "Those are—well, come to think of it, there was a fellow smoking cigars, though the fact that he was smoking a rare brand wasn't what burned him into my memory. He was a rude bugger... refused to put out his cigar... I think it messes with the purity of my products."

"Do you recall his name—or at the least what date this person bought the ether?"

"Hnnn..." His brows twitched. "Polo? Or was it Don..."

"Don Paolo?" Claire corrected quietly, reading a paper she picked up.

"Yes!"

Claire pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse, scrawling out the man's address, then returned the files to the cabinets. She gave the man a firm, grateful handshake, thanking him before she sped off into the night, Luke in tow.

**Side B**

Don Paolo leered, waiting in a smart pinstriped suit with a box of chocolates. Of course, he didn't expect her to find him on the first day of Layton's absence, which would explain the rack of pressed suits hanging in his bedroom.

He wiggled his fingers in glee and pressed the "camera on" button. The huge monitor flicked to a man with a five o'clock shadow, his top hat askew. He was wiggling, looking behind him, contemplating what to do before he worked the knots again. Last time he did, Don Paolo saw, he had tugged on one of the trick knots, resulting in the nearly 40-year-old man's joints grinding against bone.

Don Paolo was relieved that Layton was still attempting the first hurdle of his elaborately locked rooms. It was like a box in a box in a box with zillions of locks. Killing his rival would be easier, so much easier than praying Layton didn't get out of this puzzling situation, but Don Paolo couldn't do that. Maybe he couldn't bring himself to take away the man Claire loved, or maybe, and this is what he told himself: he didn't want Claire to hate him if she found out he had killed her husband.

Even if, Don Paolo ideally considered himself the better candidate for her love. Sometimes, women didn't know what was best for themselves.

Don Paolo understood that Layton was handsome and charming; however, he was passionate in all the wrong areas. Puzzles over people, logic over emotion. Women craved emotion. Why else would there be zillions of plot-less romance novels?

Don Paolo was determined to save her the heartbreak.

"Good Morning." A feminine tone pervaded his ears.

It iwas/i morning—it was that late in the darkness. In two hours, the sun would begin to part the night. It wasn't surprising to Don Paolo that he was dreaming about his unrequited love spinning him around in his chair to face her, hands on her hips, shooting him a motherly glare.

He smacked his lips sleepily, tasting the stifling flavor of morning breath, and lowered his gaze, seeing the brat in a skirt.

That little boy in a dress? Most definitely, he was fallen asleep.

"I believe you've abducted my husband. If you would be so sensible, I would like you to release him."

And although Don Paolo thought this to be a dream, he couldn't resist the urge to correct her; likewise, he was more bold than if it had been reality.

Which it was, much to the future shock of his oblivious, tired mind.

"Claire, if you had any sense, you would understand that he's no good for you! He's emotionally repressed, inflexible! If... if you needed him when he was busy, he would be reluctant to help. I have always been there for you. I've dropped everything for you already. And even now, right now, I will do what's right for you-- even if you do hate me for it. I-- I love y--"

"Pardon, but I haven't a clue who you are, sir." She smiled. Women were cruel smilers at times- they sometimes used the expression to passive-aggressively mask their thoughts.

"It's me! Don Paolo... we used to play in the sandbox together during recess--"

Another smile; it looked less disparaging. ". . .How could I forget? I should be ashamed, Donnie~ Paolo," she chirped, and moved closer. He raised his head to meet her eyes and then he didn't' have to. She lowered herself to eye level and brought her lips closer.

Luke inwardly screamed.

"Oh, Paolo Walo~" she ran a hand over his bald head as she cooed. He could feel her sweet breath against his mouth--

--and then he jarringly felt her pointed heel against his loins, kicking him away. His back slammed into the large monitor where Layton--

Everything was going wrong. There was only a pile of rope and several opened doors upon doors in rooms in rooms in rooms.

"I don't need anyone to tell me what is best for me," Claire finished. "I do appreciate the sentiment, though."

The pain in his crotch and his heart proved to him this wasn't a dream. He yelled to the observatory ceiling, never minding that the unrequited love of his life was the cause of damage, and blamed Layton.

Because really, it was always that man's fault.


End file.
